Lots WifeMonash Student Media m

ock-up 2016 edition

Authorised by sophie vassallo

contents02. Meet the Editors03. Moodie Foodie

04. No Room For Refuge05. Monash Model?

06. Style Watch07. Interview: Mimi Petrakis

11. The Hedge12. Poems by A.A. Kostas

13. Review: A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthurs Court14. Edition Playlist

Lots Wife 16 acknowledges and pays respects to the traditional owners of the land on which the works within were written, published and distributed, the Wurundjeri and Boon Wurrung people of the Kulin nations. We offer our respect to the Elders of these traditional lands, and through them to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples past and present.

This land was stolen, and sovereignty was never ceded.

meet the editors

Audrey is a third-year Arts student gradually finishing off a double major in Linguistics and Literature. In the awkward two month gap between VCE and university offers, she finished a diploma of Journalism with the London School of Journalism. Over the past few years, she has begun to publish poetry and began to emerge in the Australian literary scene when she was awarded a Glenfern Fellowship by Writers Victoria. She edits the Poetry section in Slink Chunk Press, and plans to publish a full collection of poetry before Honours, or stage a play - whichever comes first.

When it comes to Lots Wife, I have an emotional history. In Year 12, my school did an excursion to Monash and shown the facilities. I spied Lots Wife on an A-frame north of the campus centre, and stuffed it into my bag. I read it cover to cover when I got home, and did all the research on student media my little brain could handle. By the time I got to uni, I was determined to write for Lots Wife, this fab magazine with a legacy of names like Julian Burnside and Aamer Rahman.

I want a Lots Wife where students are proud to see their work published, and feel a sense of community in this incredible legacy of student media.

Elyse is a first-year Arts student who isnt really sure what shes doing with her life. Before coming to Monash, Elyse completed a Diploma of Public Relations at RMIT, sparking her passion for communication design and writing. In her spare time, Elyse enjoys singing blues, drinking copious amounts of coffee and dank memes.

I would love to

Liyan is a student completing her Masters thesis in politics, her won the Rufus David Memorial Prize for her honours thesis and in her spare time she dances to trashy pop music.

What excites me about writing is the creative process of developing, articulating and stimulating new modes of thinking and understanding. I believe writing should be passionate, challenging and thought-provoking. While writing may be a solace act, the product is a social one, one writes to be heard, to persuade, to provoke, in short, to engage . Being funny and witty is a bonus. That my goal for Lots Wife, to create a more engaging, community based paper.

A student paper is not drowned in the layers of bureaucracy and commercial interests as other parts of the journalism industry. This level of freedom is what attract me to editing Lots Wife. I do not want to rehash the same stories, I wanna bring fresh new perspectives. I believe Audrey, Elyse and I are a super babin trio who can bring back the sass and guts of Lots Wife.

Audrey El-Osta

Elyse Walton

Liyan Gao

MOODIE FOODIEFOOD OF THE CAMPUS CENTRE

Neptunes Pack (11.8) from Neptunes Catch

Margarita and Vegetarian (5.5) from Joes Pizza

Deep within the Tasman, there lies an ancient god, resurrected by the collective consciousness of we Monashites. Neptune has been reborn, and he feeds us with his catch.Moodie Foodie orders a Pack: one flake, one calamari, one crabstick and two prawns, all fried beyond recognition and served on a bed of hot, crunchy chips. A measly squeezy of tartare sauce lies buried under the pescetarian rubble.Moodie Foodie starts with the crab stick, and notices the bright pink vein that pops through the flesh and glows bright even through the fried batter. Moodie Foodie has a Hannibal flashback, and puts the crabstick down.Working through the flake, the sheer oiliness is more hindrance than decadence. The fried batter has consumed all but a thin segment of actual fish, and a majority of whats being eaten is simply fried flour and egg. I cannot finish it. It becomes ever more apparent that these fish died for nothing. I get through some chips dripping with golden frying oil, and I cannot go on.I donate the remaining prawn, calamari and chips to the table of blokes next to me. I am dubbed a legend.

Friday night pizza draws closer and yet further away. Moodie Foodie needs a reason to carry on. It is not even Tuesday. Joes Pizza calls me.

A quick exchange of spare change and sparse eye contact under the blinding-white fluorescent lights, and soon I have a paper bag filled with pizza dripping with molten cheese and toppings slipping off the side. I sequester myself into a corner, out of sight and out of light.

Pizza returns the student to the primitive state, we are all simple beings yearning for pleasure, gently herbed and cooked to a golden-browned perfection.

I hunker down and commit to the pizza, the pizza commits to me.

We are now bonded for life.

No Room for RefugeLiyan Gao

The definition of a refugee is someone who is forced to escape their home in order to escape persecution, war or a natural disaster. In other words, they are fleeing from their home as a means for survival. In recognition of the desperate and difficult situation, countries of means and capacity have provided asylum for refugees. Our contemporary understanding of asylum seeking comes from the efforts post World War II to support refugees. As UNHCR (United Nations Refugee Agency) points out, providing asylum has been a hallmark of society ever since conflict and disaster have collided with human populations. References to [granting asylum have been found in texts written 3,500 years ago, during the blossoming of the great early empires in the Middle East such as the Hittites, Babylonians, Assyrians and ancient Egyptians.

Fundamentally, the granting of asylum is founded on the belief in the scarcity of life. The belief that people, on the virtue of being a human deserve to live. While in some instances, the upheaval of the right to life is treated as heroic, resistance fighters during World War 2 were considered valiant citizens whom risk their lives to ensure the life of others. Yet today, in Australia, when wealthy nations can protect and welcome refugees without risking their life standards let alone lives, it is a startling and disheartening state of affairs when the dominant political view and government policy is founded on turning away refugees.

New York Times editorial board recently published a piece titled Australias brutal treatment of migrants, outlining Abbotts inhumane turn back policy and mandatory detention centres. Abbotts response to the international criticism was to reiterate that stopping the boats is the only way to combat human trafficking. By focusing the issue on villainous peoples smugglers, Abbott avoids the question of how to help refugees, a question proven more pertinent with the viral image of the dead Syrian toddler, Aylan Kurdi. Unfortunately these appeals to compassion are a mere detour to a debate largely locked on towards increase border control and draconian measures.

The Labor party has adopted Abbotts turn back boat policy, providing bipartisan support and demonstrating populace support for these policies. The acceptance of this disastrous state of affairs in Australia boils down to racism. The fear of the foreigners, the coloured, and the violent means employed to maintain White Australia is as Australian in tradition as drinking goon from a Hills Hoist. Australia is not new to racism, it is founded on the invasion, and the genocide of the indigenous population. In this context it is unsurprising that the Liberal government has promised to increase the intake of Syrian refugees with only a Christian minority. Muslim men here are the other, the foreigner.

These criticisms of the Australian refugee policy are not novel. However it remains pertinent to counter the escalation of brutal border policing (see: border force). When the maintenance of a White Australia is supported by both major parties, the people of Australia can not depend and rely on our politicians. We need to politically intervene, reject the need for border policing and demand opening our borders. This is becoming increasingly more important, as Australia risks becoming a prototype for racist anti-immigration policies. Denmark has followed Australias suit in publishing anti-refugee adverts in foreign papers, according to RISE (Refugees, Survivors and Ex-detainees). How does such political intervention manifest is a difficult question, but these are questions that we need to start asking.

Trigger Warning: Death

Monash Model?Mali Rea

As the government leaves universities out in the cold with less and less funding, they have started to think of themselves as a business. Universities are no longer the communities of knowledge and debate they once were, they are now motivated by one thing: profit.

To squeeze the most profit of students and keep the cost of teaching as low as possible, universities undergo a process called restructuring.

This process usually involves the cutting of specialised courses, forcing students to enrol in generalised degrees. This is a maximum efficency form of a degree where there are huge classes of generalised units early in the degree, with little specialisation later on.

Its been difficult to find out what exactly Monash intended to do with undergraduate degrees because the information has only been made public through undergraduate course guides- and even then it takes comparing, course by course from the previous year. The university have avoided at every opportunity, revealing the details of their plans to prevent any kind of opposition.

The major change is that in 2016 new students in education, engineering, and some business and design courses will enrol in a general degree, eg. Bachelor of Education, and graduate with a specialised degree, eg. Bachelor of Secondary Education.

In Arts, notable changes are that the Bachelor Arts (English Language), Bachelor of Arts (Languages), Bachelor of Letters and Bachelor of Journalism are no longer offered in 2016. While these areas of study will, for the time being, be offered as

majors in an Arts degree, Im concerned that those studying these degrees now will find it hard to get a job with a degree that no longer exists.

Furthermore, the major in Art History is no longer offered, instead a Bachelor of Art History and Curating can be awarded from starting a Bachelor of Fine Art. This change illustrates that Monash are more interested in offering courses which make students job ready, and they know students will pay for these courses because theyll earn more in a career. A profit based attitude to education encourages cutting costs in teaching and also changes the whole concept of a university. Universities are supposed to be places of learning, critically analysing society and creating knowledge, not products.

Despite much discussion in Monash Student Council, a public forum on the restructure has only been called in week 10, meaning it will be unlikely to see many students attend or create any footing for a campaign against any unfair changes. Without the pressure from members of Switch and other left wing activists, I doubt we would have a forum at all.

Style WatchSpotted: Monash Wholefoods

hirush & TayebaEm StephWho is your style icon?E: Any hot babes I see on the street.

Describe your style in one word?E: all-over-the-place

Do you have any films that inspire you?E: The Jungle Book

Favourite thing about Monash?E: Wholefoods!

Describe your style in one word?T: fierceH: grunge-nouveau

What is your University fashion staple?T: No bra cuz dem headlights gotta be on showH: Ditto.

Who is your style icon?T: Kim Kardashian, anything from the gormans catelogueH: Kate Moss and the cookie monster - together, roaming the streets.

Describe your style in one word?S: One word? Crafted from opp shops.

Whats your University fashion staple?S: My necklace (shown above)

Look out for Monash Style watch and be recogonized for being hella fierce.

PEPSI COLA - MIMI PETRAKIS

mimi PetrakisInterviewed by Audrey el-osta

I found you in the Hub at the Container Festival. Do you study at Monash Clayton?

(I like the phrasing of this question; it sounds like you found me living under a chair in the back) At the moment Im a current student at Monash Clayton finishing up my Bachelor of Arts/Bachelor of Visual Arts. I actually got involved with MUST last year and they let me hang around and do art-type things for shows and promotion, theyre really fantastic.

Tell us about your collection Everything Is For Sale, that we saw featured in The Hub during the MUST Container Festival:

Everything is for Sale is a series of visual works dealing with the marketability of womens bodies. The work questions whether it is possible to form an organic identity in a visual society where the depiction of the female form is almost indistinguishable from advertising material. By intermingling aesthetically appealing art-nouveau style imagery with subtle suggestions of the disturbing, Everything is for Sale attempts to perturb viewers into questioning the presence of female figures. In aiming to expose objectification, the work also raises questions about the practice of the artist who is ultimately still exploiting the female figure to make a point.

With this in mind, I am reminded of an early Marina Abramovic work called Role Exchange, whereby she and an Amsterdam sex worker traded places. How do you compare this commodification of womens bodies to sell

products like alcohol and soft drinks that you observed to inspire EIFS, to the displays of sex workers in shop windows in Amsterdam?

Ive actually been to Amsterdam and walked through the red light district. At the time I remember it making me incredibly uncomfortable and hating it while not really understanding why. After all, these women were just doing their jobs. However after considering it, it wasnt so much the women in the windows that disturbed me but the reactions of the audience who thought it was acceptable to openly laugh, judge, and openly degrade these women. What was really disturbing was the turning of these women into a spectacle for public amusement. This idea stayed with me and I found myself making parallels when I returned home and encountered this commodification in advertising material. In EIFS Im attempting to address this pervasive idea that a womans body exists as a product to be judged, sold or used to sell.

In particular, tell us about the Pepsi Cola piece - are there any Lana Del Rey allusions?

Im glad you picked up on that! Yes the name is a reference to the infamous Lana del Rey lyric; Im a bit of a fan. Pepsi Cola was actually the first work I finished and it sparked me to create the rest for the exhibition. The name is a reference to the slightly perturbing underlying sexual nature of the work.

>>

DRUGS NOT HUGS - MIMI PETRAKIS

How many of those works are still available and where can we buy them:

Pepsi Cola is actually still available, as well as Moonshine, Absinthe, and Champagne. They should shortly be available to purchase on my website if I ever get my act together and put them up there.

Your work focuses mostly on an intersection between womens bodies and feminist messages; how do you straddle the line between objectification and art?

This is actually an aspect of my practice that plagues me particularly in regards to the images in EIFS, which could be very easily confused with advertising material or the type of ideas Im critiquing. In regards to this particular series Ive relied heavily on the exhibition/gallery setting in which the audience is forced to question familiar imagery more than they usually would. Its an issue Im continuously working through and currently trying to circumvent by focusing on self-portraiture. Maybe its not so bad when you objectify yourself? Its a fine line.S

Speaking of which, your interpretation of St. Eve in Eden is strikingly beautiful; tell us more about where this came from and your choice to canonise her as a Saint.

To be honest Ive always thought Eve had a bad rap. Ive always been fascinated by her story and how it has informed western culture through the ages and even now. A woman created as a companion to a man for his pleasure (symbolized by the arms) subverts the order to remain subservient and ignorant and instead pursues knowledge (through eating the fruit). In my mind she became a hero and I decided to canonize her. Its also a bit of a dig at my quite religious upbringing in which I was encouraged not to ask too many questions about the source material.

I notice you have done oil paintings and have dabbled in other media; do you have a preferred form?

Im a little bit of a medium-whore in that way. I cant really commit to any form in particular. I do however consider myself predominantly a painter and have a soft spot for gold gouache, which I would bathe in if I could afford to.

What are your plans for the future?

Thats a very intimidating question. How far in the future? Short term, Im focusing on finishing the semester and making significant progress on a new series Im working on called Majesty. Long term, Im looking to expand and be shown more and more in commercial spaces.

BOTTICELLI ROLLING IN HIS GRAVE - MIMI PETRAKIS

Do you collaborate with other artists, and would you be open to?

At the moment Ive been collaborating mainly with the lovely people of MUST, but Im definitely open to working with artists of any medium in the future. Id love to do a Dali and make a bunch of feminist-themed couches. little sadistic. Originally Id planned to do a whole series of similar works but had to take a break before doing that again.

Your piece, The Persistence of the Past toys with the ephemeral and fickle nature of art in relation to the audience. With this in mind, how would you like seeing your work immortalised on someones skin in the form of a tattoo? Would you ever consider designing a tattoo for someone?

The Persistence of the Past was one of the most painful things Ive ever put myself

through. Having an audience erase a painting Id spent six months doing was a little sadistic. Originally Id planned to do a whole series of similar works but had to take a break before doing that again. With that in mind, seeing my work permanently on someones skin would be the ultimate compliment. Ive always loved tattoos and traditional tattoo imagery often features in my work. Ive designed some for people in the past but I would love to do it again! Hit me up!

Where can we find you and your work?

Currently Im locked up and forcing myself to paint so Im not exhibiting, but my past work and prints for sale can be found at my website: mimipetrakis.com

EVEN ME - MIMI PETRAKIS

The Hedge

The gruff voice was echoing in his ears. He fiddled with the hole in his sleeve, pulling on a loose thread. Every once in a while he would nod in agreement, feeling the weight of his mothers gaze. Sometimes, when he could remember them, he said the words he had tried to memorise, the words he knew they wanted to hear. When he had first begun, he had tried to find a glimpse of meaning in the suggestions that flew from the mans mouth, but they were little more than tiny phonetic vibrations, dancing around the room, taunting him. No matter how much he tried, he couldnt catch onto them and whenever he got close, it always managed to dart away. It was easier to pretend. Sometimes he would stare out the window, until his mothers disapproving gaze dragged him back to reality.

Dont forget your medication tonight, she said quietly, breaking the silence of the car ride home.

When they got home he sat quietly in his bedroom for a while, unaware of the rate at which time was passing until he was called for dinner. He barely felt hunger, but ate every evening at the scheduled hour of consumption. After he had eaten, he went for his usual evening walk. Instead of a fence at the bottom of the garden, there was a hedge, which ran as far as the eye could see in both directions, along the border of the housing estate in which he had lived his whole life. He had never ventured beyond the hedge, and he knew nothing of what lay beyond it. Every evening he would turn left and walk until the sun began to set. As he walked, he observed the garden arrangements of his neighbours, the pruned bushes, the sprinklers that switched on automatically at seven oclock every night, the glistening, clear water of the pools. He passed an elderly couple sitting at their lawn table. They were sipping lemonade from straws. He heard them shout out an invitation to join them, but he was in a hurry now, and he began to jog.

His mother was annoyed. He had been due to take his pills a half hour ago. The biggest one caught in his throat on the way down, and even after he had swallowed it, a peculiar taste lingered on his tongue. He sat down at his desk in his room and opened his exercise book. The words were dancing around on the page, bouncing and colliding off each other, refusing to form any kind of coherent sentence. A buzzing filled his ears, starting low and becoming shrill, demanding his attention. He slammed the book shut and squeezed his eyes closed until he no longer felt dizzy. He went to bed and slept a dreamless sleep as the tree next to his window groaned against the wind.

A short story by Meagan Lowe

The HedgeA short story by Meagan Lowe

The next day he was restless, with only one thing on his mind. The ticking of the grandfather clock echoed throughout his hears, drowning out his mother and the man with the gruff voice. He was itching to take another walk, to see how far he could get today, to see if he could reach the end and find a way around it.

Is there anything you want to tell me? the Doctor asked, his pen poised and ready to write in his notebook. He shook his head.Do you know why youre here, child?

His mother was staring out the window, and he heard her sigh. It was the sigh of someone who had exhausted all their efforts in a cause slowly revealing itself to be futile.

He was fidgety in the car on the way home, thankful for his mothers silence, and wolfed down his dinner. He didnt notice it burning his throat. When he was done he flew out the door, desperate to make every minute before sundown count. His mind felt instantly clear once he was on his usual path, and he broke into a light run, hardly hearing the sounds of children splashing around in their pools as he passed their backyards. There was debris from the storm everywhere, and he nearly tripped over the puddles and branches obstructing his path as he sprinted toward his goal. Soon he realized he must be farther than he had ever been; yet he had only been running for five minutes. The long row of houses was coming to an end, yet there was no sign of the hedge finishing. Unaware of the position of the sun or the colour of the sky, he persevered.

The hedge seemed to have a mind of its own, and the yearning inside him to reach the end grew stronger. Slowing down, he looked over his shoulder, realizing he could no longer see the row of houses. He was in the middle of a paddock, and still the hedge ran on as far as the eye could see. He needed to stay close to it. He looked back at it, and to his surprise, saw an archway.

It had definitely not been there before. Although maybe it had. He couldnt quite be sure. He blinked, certain it was a trick of the quickly diminishing light. When he opened them it was still there, although he couldnt quite see what was beyond it. He gazed at it, unable to tear his eyes away, his heart beating so loudly it seemed it would leap out of his chest. If he listened, he thought he could hear a faint whispering coming from behind the door. >>

A strange fear gripped him and he realized the sun had nearly finished its descent. He snapped his eyes away from the gate and began to run.

He spent the next few weeks in dazed reverie. People spoke to him and observed the movements of their mouths that meant they were attempting to communicate with him. A few times, when he had been lost in thought for an extended period of time, unaware of the daily rotations of life happening around him, he thought he could hear the whispering voices reaching him from some hidden place, but every time he snapped his head round to look, they disappeared. Every waking moment was focused on counting down the minutes until he would be allowed to once more make his way along the hedge and seek out the entrance he was not entirely sure he had even seen. When the chance finally arose, he flew out of the house, energy coursing through him, to race the sun to the end of the hedge once more. He ran as fast as he could, unaware of the stitch in his side or that his lungs were fighting, desperately for breath. The gardens were a blur of blue and green. He reached the place in hardly any time at all, and the sun was still high in the sky, glistening down on the golden leaves that twisted their way around the archway. He was so close, his hand was extended, and he felt an invisible force pulling him in. His fingertips touched the handle, warmth filled his entire body from head to toe. He felt light, as though a single breath could make him float away. He was turning the handle, the voices were whispering excitedly in a language he could not understand, pulling him in.

A veil fell across the world, sending a shiver down his spine. With one last look, he turned and began to run, just as the sky fell open and emptied itself upon him. The children were safe inside, the pools covered. He could hear his mothers voice calling out into the dark before he saw her. She pulled him inside the house and wrapped his shoulders in a blanket with her own aching, fragile hands. He wanted to say something to her, to apologize, to comfort her. Instead he went to bed. Some time later, he heard a familiar voice drifting up the stairs. He soon found it belonged to the doctor, who was sitting in his lounge room with his mother, papers scattered around them. They looked up when he entered the room. His mothers face was raw. She had never looked so old and worn, the lines she had not had a year before etched deep into face. He wanted to run, to leave behind this world of clock ticking and bell ringing, he wanted to leave it all behind. He closed his eyes and wished harder than ever for the voices to reappear, to guide him to the gate so he could go through it and never return. Im sorry, his mother said, staring at the ground.

He couldnt think of anything else to do other than run. The path to the gate was so automatic for him now that he seemed to get there in no time at all, as though he was being pulled along by an invisible force.

Weve been waiting for you, the voices whispered, in some new language he could now understand.

He could feel his mind disconnecting, giving in. He could feel his mother, the houses, and the pruned gardens with their chlorinated pools slipping; giving way to the pure bliss enveloping him. Without a single last glance of the world he was leaving, he stepped through the archway into the world beyond the hedge.

Poems by A.a. kostas

Your Son

On My Tenth Year Together With My Beautiful Wife Martha

A fretful stride impossible to keep up with. I run to the basement to hide. Your failing marriage frightens the cat, so I stroke his tail until he jumps from my invisible arms. A mass migration, an exodus. Across the water, hiding in the messy crowd. For you it is possible. Twelve pills a day, on the hour, so I never miss the last song. Its my favourite. I sing it to your son, sometimes. Georges wants to be my friend, but you say were not allowed to talk. A desperate army scales the city walls: the women and children stay locked in their bedchambers. Im stealing you away tonight my love. Well go to the hot jungle and sleep in the vines and sweat off our clothes and worries like the python shedding its skin. A stiff breeze buffets the windows and thin walls. But the smouldering purple of your bed is more than enough to keep the chill at bay. The seer stands in his tower, meditating on the battle below. I comb your hair with my fingers, my toes, my teeth. You are lifted above the garden, clutching a flaming sword, and the world is cleaved in three. You, Georges, and me. The city walls crumble and a shot rings out. My wrists are bleeding your blood, it trails down my palms until it drips off my fingertips onto the dirty kitchen linoleum. You found us in the closet and dragged us out by our hair. Like a dead father you rage in my brain for weeks, for months. The seer took you away to his tower and you sit up there with him now, your notes drifting into my mouth. Words come spilling off my tongue, dripping red, like a priests damnation. Twelve pills a day, Georges. Then Ill feel better again.

I know what I desire

And what you cannot be

You brought me

the mountains

But I wanted

the sea.

In a witty social satire, a nineteenth-century American travels back in time to sixth-century England

Mark Twain has generally settled into our collective as a brilliant, mustached wit machine; and perhaps weve read his short stories and found them brilliant, or perhaps we bobbed into Huck Finn, and bobbed out again, out of confusion?

(Fun note: it was easier for my father to read his slang translated into Chinese than it was for me to read it in his original English! Loss of lingual data may sometimes be a good thing?)

But if Huckleberry Finns viscous vernacular was unpalatable, then try this classic from the Twain oeuvre his sharp satire is proof of his most potent skill. A Connecticut Yankee is typical of his prowess as both an ideas man and a wordsmith. Often considered the earliest science fiction novel, its a Monty Pythonesque mlange of Arthurian legends and American commercialism. At its worst, the book drones rather greedily to the authors singular interest in industrial maneuvers, but at its best, is very morally reflective (all bleeding heart).

Bright and humanistic, read for the elastic language, black humour and resourceful protagonist!

Review:

Aly Zhang

A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthurs Court by Mark Twain

Playlist: Switch for MSA 2016

1. Girls (Run the World) - Beyonce2. Switch - TLC

3. One Week - Barenaked Ladies4. Go! Away - 2NE1

5. Electioneering - Radiohead6. Candidate - David Bowie

7. Politician - Cream8. Cant Decide - Black Flag

10. Elective Amnesia - Rise Against11. People Have the Power - Patti Smith

12. Democracy - Leonard Cohen13. Be Careful How You Vote - Sunnyland Slim14. One Cat, One Vote, One Beer - Ry Cooder

http://tinyurl.com/mocklotsplaylist